


in darkness, we see starlight

by Flora_Obsidian



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Immortal Space Pansexuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Obsidian/pseuds/Flora_Obsidian
Summary: She regenerates in the snow after pushing back the inevitable for even longer. Weeks under high stress, surrounded by danger, and an encounter she still doesn't remember occurring the first time around with her first self and the danger which accompanied that as well-- she collapses to the ground in the aftermath, trembling, shaking, hearts beating a rapid four-part staccato as they struggle to acclimate. The world is a blur of white and cold and a bone-deep ache in her muscles, of the metallic scent of energy that lingers in the air long after a regeneration has ended; her breathing is loud in her own ears, drowning out all else but the wind.Or perhaps there is nothing but the wind. Nothing but the wind and her.





	in darkness, we see starlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hyped about the new Doctor. Sad that Capaldi is leaving, just as I've been sad about every Doctor leaving, but _so so excited_ to see where Jodie Whittaker takes things.
> 
> That being said, we now have the opportunity for space wives, hence the following oneshot.

She regenerates in the snow. Golden fire burns in sharp contrast to the biting chill of the air; liquid bubbles and pools on the ground as white melts into running clear; regeneration is explosive at the best of times, and she had bottled hers away for weeks as time congealed around them on a ship crawling with Cybermen, as she struggled to save a handful of children despite knowing she would fail, as she watched her friends slip through her fingers along with bits of her control.

She regenerates in the snow after pushing back the inevitable for even longer. Weeks under high stress, surrounded by danger, and an encounter she still doesn't remember occurring the first time around with her first self and the danger which accompanied that as well-- she feels the snow melting through the fabric of her trousers as she kneels, trembling, shaking, hearts beating a rapid four-part staccato as they struggle to acclimate. The world is a blur of white and cold and a bone-deep ache in her muscles, of the metallic scent of energy that lingers in the air long after a regeneration has ended; her breathing is loud in her own ears, drowning out all else but the wind.

Or perhaps there is nothing but the wind. Nothing but the wind and her.

She lists sideways. She is on her knees. She cannot remember if she regenerated already collapsed or if this is a part of the aftermath. The TARDIS is solid and stable next to her. There is bare ground underneath her, wet, a melted circle where she has burned away the frozen water, steam curling up as it cools. Her clothes are too big.

She lifts a shaking hand-- young, small-- and tugs a lock of hair into her blurred vision. All she can make out is a distinct lack of ginger, and she lets her arm drop.

Her eyes close. Her past self returned her to her ship where she last left it; the planet is empty and cold and devoid of life. Excess energy will keep her from dying in the next fifteen hours unless something very very bad happens, and she doesn't feel like moving. This is fine.

“This is _not_ fine, sweetie, and you know it.”

“Nngh.”

She squints into the building storm. River tuts and brushes a lock of mystery-colored hair out of her face. She's kneeling in the snow across from her, dressed in white, young as she was on Darillium, on the day she died all those centuries ago.

"After everything..." she grits out, feeling the words drift out of reach as she struggles to grasp them. Speaking hurts. She doesn't remember screaming, and yet. “You'd think... hallucinations... think it'd wait. Few... more minutes.”

“I can project myself out of the Library database, Doctor. Don't you remember?”

Her brain hurts too much for thinking, but hallucination or not, she's always willing to make an effort for her wife. For River. “Remember... bits about Clara. Little bits. Little little bits.”

“That's all right. Don't push yourself. Sweetie, you need to get up, get out of this cold.”

“Don't want to move.”

“You're leaning against your TARDIS.” She sounds exasperated. Fondly exasperated. That's a thing. “It isn't a long walk.”

“Shh. Shhhhhhhh.” The cold feels good against her skin. She doesn't feel too hot, now, just pleasantly numb. Better than before. “Immortal space women... always so... economical...”

“I don't think that's the word you're looking for. And not that gender is determined by looks, but so far as I can tell, you fall into that category now, too, love.”

She scrunches up her face. “Yes. No. Yes. She. She, her, hers. River. Can I...?”

Her first fumble misses by... well, it might be by a wide margin, but since the reason it misses is her current inability to judge distances, she isn't exactly sure. Her second try is closer to the mark, and she looks in a bleary kind of fascination at her fingers tangled in River's own. She can't feel it-- perhaps because her fingers are numb, or perhaps because River isn't really there in that she isn't a solid projection, or perhaps because this _is_ a hallucination. Regardless, River sighs, and River turns so that their hands are properly linked, and River moves to stand and the Doctor follows like she always will. She's always willing to make an effort for River.

River Song, running into improbably impossible situations, knowing that the Doctor will never be far behind to help her out of them. Yes, at least that much is familiar in her currently addled mind. The gentle glow of the TARDIS console is even more so, and the noise of the engines, and the smell of the air inside, and the feeling of home.

“River,” she says as she stumbles down the corridors.

Her wife guides her around corners, directs her through the twisting labyrinth of corridors; the old ship is doing her best to make things easy on them, the Doctor can feel dimensions shifting over her skin as the space inside adjusts itself accordingly, but the sensors are likely scrambled from the massive blast of regeneration energy so close to the console doors. Everything is still blurry, but warmer. She tries to look down to see if her hand is still linked with her wife's, but the moment she takes her eyes off the path before her, she tilts abruptly to the side and catches herself on the far wall.

“River,” she says again, and her wife's smile is a kind and gentle thing. Darillium smoothed some of their broken edges, taught them how to understand one another instead of simply interacting and playing off the sides of themselves which they chose to show to another. “River, are you... are you here?”

“You're talking to me, aren't you?”

“Doesn't mean anything.”

Her wife laughs. It's been centuries since she's heard that laugh. She hopes she remembers this when she wakes, feeling unconscious beginning to loom as the process of putting one foot in front the other grows ever more difficult.

“Are you really here?” she asks again.

“Wherever you are, I'll always be there. And you will always see me. That's how this works, isn't it?”

Another corner, and a door, and a bed she rarely ever sees and uses even less. She takes a step toward it and falls the rest of the way, letting out a vaguely relieved kind of sigh-- relieved, but mostly tired, and a little bit dizzy. River sits on the corner, and the world is spinning again, and she can't tell if the mattress dips under her weight or not.

“I'm feeling trench coats again,” she says into the pillow. “Trench coats and pockets. Solid pair of lapels. Nice pair of shoes. What color's m'hair? Blonde or brown? It's always blonde or brown, still haven't gotten the red. Also feeling a stack of blueberry pancakes. Space blueberries. You know the ones. Eighty-ninth century. Also feeling a nap. And a hoodie. Nice one. Not the Master's, that was a mess. Big hoodie. Big hood.”

“Aim for the nap first,” River tells her. Her eyes are closed. She isn't sure when that happened, but doesn't care to open them. Nap first is a good idea. Brilliant idea. _Brilliant_ , River. Her wife is brilliant.

“Brilliant,” she says aloud, just so River knows.

“Yes, I know,” River answers, sounding amused.

She smiles. Good. Mission accomplished, and so soon after regeneration, too.

“River?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Wherever... wherever I am.” Words are harder, now, but she does her best to get them out in the proper order, proper tense, proper language. “Wherever I am... you'll be there. Always?”

“Always,” her wife whispers.

“Be there when I wake up?”

“I'll make sure to sit somewhere you can see me when you do.”

And maybe she imagines it, but she thinks she feels a hand brushing hair from her face, and the covers being pulled up over her shoulders.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in under and hour and didn't want to wait too long to post it, so if you notice any glaring typos, let me know along with what you thought of the piece as a whole.
> 
> As always, thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!! Comments and kudos are much appreciated. Go check out my other DW stories if you have a moment, or come and follow me on Tumblr for more writing and meta @floraobsidian


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